“When I woke up and found you gone, it was like being alone in the whole world, as if I’d been bereaved. Can you understand that?” She edged closer.
“For the first time in my life, I knew what it was to be a part of someone else. To feel real pain at parting.”
Marie gave him a little-girl-lost smile, reaching up to fiddle with the shining coils of hair. A moment later they unravelled into golden tresses draping over her creamy shoulders.
“What I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to go tonight. Not if you don’t want to.”
Suddenly she was blushing a ravishing pink. Before Moe’s startled gaze, she stood and faced him, kicking off her shoes, her wrap slipping to the floor. Moe goggled. She was wearing nothing beneath. He half-rose to meet her but she pushed him back and straddled his thighs, cupping his chin in warm palms.
“What do you say?”
Moe studied her naked beauty, the face inches from his own. “I say you’ve made an old … older man very happy.”
When Moe woke up, it was dark and late and he was in bed. Befuddled by sleep, he was about to berate the badger when it came to him just where he was and what had roused – and aroused – him. Teeth nibbled and warm lips murmured excitingly rude things against his ear.
Moe forgot about the badger.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In coppers’ parlance, the town of Newlands Priory on market day was a choker. And when market day met race day, it was a right choker. To Moe, it looked like half the county had come for one and the rest to the other.
The town, population some thirty thousand souls, was bursting at the seams. Streets were full of cars and cattle, sheep and sheep-like people, all conspiring to clog the arteries of Newlands Priory so that it was fast approaching a massive mobile coronary. Shutdown.
Moe took the first left and sought sanctuary in a leafy side street under threat from huge signboards announcing the latest superstore. Stan Downes looked up from his self-defensive crouch in the front passenger seat, nodding in approval as Moe saw a space and headed for it, just beating an irate purple-faced lady in a four-wheel drive. The rudely shaken fist got one of Moe’s serene royal waves in reply.
“You did well there, Arthur. I was beginning to think we’d never get anywhere near in time.” Downes carefully folded the newspaper he had been reading so that the racing page for Newlands Priory was uppermost, and pocketed the pen he had been using to mark his race selections. Moe re-aligned the car and switched off. He glanced at his companion. “You OK to walk from here? It’s still a good mile.”
Downes spluttered indignantly. “I don’t spend every hour sitting on my arse like this, you know.” Moe held up both hands. “OK, OK, just asking.” He got out and waited for Downes to do the same. Then he heard angry mutterings from the car and spotted the lamp- post beside the passenger door, keeping the old man from getting out. Moe leaned down. “Sorry, Stan. Never saw it.”
There were more mutterings as the old man contorted himself across the two seats and an intrusive gear lever to reach Moe on his side of the Astra. Straightening up with care, Downes checked to ensure every moving part could. “Right!” he proclaimed, plainly relieved to be master of his own fate once again, “I say a steady stretch of the legs will get us to the main gate in …” – he checked his watch – “twenty minutes.” Moe looked at his own timepiece. “Just in time for the first race.” Downes wasn’t worried. “Can’t say I’ve seen anything I fancy in that.” He was checking the pockets of his old tweed jacket when Moe finished checking the Astra. Satisfied, they set off.
Nothing seemed to have budged on their return to the main road. Horns hooted and people brayed louder than the livestock that filled the gaps in all directions. Man and beast were locked solid. Downes winced at the bedlam. “Some of those pillocks should change places with the poor bloody animals.”
Moe had a thought. “What do you know about badgers, Stan?”
The old man lifted bony shoulders. “Nocturnal. Fierce if provoked but fine if left alone.” He pulled his jacket tighter. “And due to hibernate around now.” He lifted a quizzical eyebrow at Moe. “Why?”
Moe sidestepped a large pile of cow dung. “I’ve got one for a neighbour.”
Downes was impressed. “Have you now? Have you seen it? They’re reclusive creatures at the best of times.” Moe hopped back.
“As a matter of fact, I have. And more than once. Though it can be hard to tell at night. The old eyes can play tricks.”
Downes snuffled into a large handkerchief. “Tell me about it.”
“I think it has a home on Badger’s Knoll – behind my caravan. First time I’ve ever seen a badger that wasn’t on TV.”
“And you overlooked by Badger’s Knoll!”
“You can go to Shepherd’s Bush but you won’t see any shepherds!”
By this time, they had reached the rear end of a long line of humanity armed with all the paraphernalia that racing people consider essential on expeditions to enjoy their favourite sport.
“Crikey!” Downes exclaimed. “Now I know how those Israelites must have felt trekking to the Promised Land.” Moe chuckled. He had already told the old man how his own interest in racing had only come about meeting Screwy Naylor and how the old docker had started giving him tips in return for Moe’s kindness to his wife. Downes had nodded sagely. “Women and horses … a tricky pair. It takes a clever man to make money – or sense – out of either!”
Now that they were here, Moe wanted the old man to enjoy his day out. Despite London being ringed with courses he himself rarely went racing. He would make an effort for Derby Day mind, but that was special to any Londoner and Moe saw himself a Londoner.
“Strewth, Arthur! Look at ’em all. Will there be room for us?” Downes’ faded old eyes sparkled happily. “Your old man would have loved this.” There was a momentary sadness in his expression: then it was gone as Downes raised his eyes heavenwards. “We’ll get a winner for you, old chum, just you wait and see.” Moe smiled and added “amen”. For sure, Downes had looked forward to his stints with Maurice Moe in the bookies but he had admitted to his pal’s son never having been to a racecourse in his life before. Moe wanted this to be a special day for them all.
Ten minutes exactly to the first race saw the two men standing triumphantly beyond the turnstiles. Moe bought them a race card each, containing listings of all the races, with descriptions of every horse’s other races plus notes about jockeys, making them useful betting guides.
Downes clutched his tightly, a newly acquired passport to a world he couldn’t wait to visit. Moe took his arm. “Let’s find the parade ring and see what’s what.” Downes needed no prompting. Together, they pushed through the milling crowd towards the distant ring. A number of high-stepping horses were already being led around by stable lads and lasses as they reached the rail and began to inspect the runners.
Downes’ rapt expression pleased Moe. It was going to be a good day, of that he was certain. More horses entered the ring, each with its saddle and numbercloth in place. On the grass covered oval beyond the parading animals stood the ‘connections’ – owners, friends, and the trainers, most of whom seemed to be listening to small men in brightly coloured racing silks and shiny black boots. Moe knew most of the names of the jockeys and recognised some of them as being notable big race winners elsewhere. He pointed out this one and that one to Downes, indicating a trainer or two who were famous names in ‘the game’.
Downes lapped it up, eyes alight with admiration and awe at so much beauty and strength so close as the magnificent animals pranced past. Moe was always reminded of the horses on the fairground rides of his childhood. The vivid colours and the thrill of excitement always came back. He wondered if a man like Caesar Legge ever saw it that way. Somehow, it seemed silly even to consider such a possibility.
A chestnut mare of delicate power trotted by. Moe nudged Downes.
“She’ll do for me. What do you think?”
�
��I think that if she had two legs she’d be a real heartbreaker” Downes studied his race card until he found the entry.
“Travel In Hope. I like it.”
“So do I. The price should be attractive since she has no form to speak of. Fancy joining me in an each-way flutter?”
Downes squinted at Moe. “How much?”
“Five quid each way – each.” Moe was watching the return of his selection. The stable lass leading her gave them a big smile in passing. Downes revealed a rare flash of teeth in a smile back. He was enjoying himself. “OK. Count me in,” he told Moe and reached in his pocket for the ten pounds required of him.
“Let’s go and compare the odds.” Moe led the way towards the betting enclosure, pausing to enquire at the Tote window about the odds on offer there. Whilst the bookmakers offered more colour, atmosphere and some entertainment, a punter could occasionally get a better bargain in a bet from the organisation run for racing’s benefit. But Downes was having none of it.
“It’s the rails for me. I’d rather take money from them” – he waved at the rows of bookies – “than from racing.” He nudged Moe and gave him a sly wink. “Could be that greedy bugger Legge will be here. I’d love to take a few bob off him.” Moe grinned his sympathy.
The bookmakers were already busy taking bets as the entries for the first race were being mounted back in the parade ring. Moe looked around. ‘Sorry Stan. Can’t see your favourite bookie.” Downes grunted. “Pity.”
The horses and their jockeys began passing beyond the rails on their way to the start as Moe and Downes moved down the lines of bookmakers’ boards, comparing the odds on offer. The best they found was an attractive sixteen to one and by common consent they placed their bet. Moe took the brightly coloured card in receipt and handed it to Downes.
“Don’t lose it. Here, use this.” He handed over his ball pen.
Downes laboriously wrote the name of their choice on the back of the card and gave it a big kiss before securing it out of sight and handing the pen back. Together, they found a gap in the growing crowd, not too far from the red circle of the winning post, and there they waited.
Travel In Hope didn’t win but she did them proud, running on sweetly from midfield to snatch third place on the line as Downes jumped up and down bellowing his encouragement. He turned to Moe.
“This beats shouting at a TV screen in a smoky old betting shop!”
“Doesn’t it just!” Moe opened his race card. “Not much value to be had in the next race. A small field and an odds-on favourite. So, unless you want to bet five pounds to maybe – only maybe – win one, we might as well leave it alone.” Downes was happy to agree. He was impressed when the odds-on favourite was beaten a head, and following the younger man’s lead, left the next race alone as well. Instead, they wandered around, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of a busy late autumn race-day with Moe pointing out faces that Downes had only ever seen on a TV screen. The latter soon began to get into it.
“Isn’t that Ronan O’Reilly, the Irish jockey who rode Born To Run to victory in the Champion Hurdle at Cheltenham last year? And look, there’s Marion Draper, the champion trainer two years running.” Downes’ eyes were everywhere, determined not to miss anyone or anything.
“Fancy a pint?” Moe enquired, in between the rapid observations.
‘The Saddlers’ was the busiest of the bars to be found at Newlands Priory racecourse. Packed for most of the afternoon on any race day, it offered a wide choice of much sought after refreshment to lubricate the jagged throat hoarse through shouting a winner (or loser) home, and for the exchange of strongly held views on all things racing between disciples of the turf, whether professionals or enthusiastic amateurs trying to keep up, many of whom had already lost direction.
Moe cajoled and cadged his way to the bar, towing Downes in his wake. A barmaid of Wagnerian proportions fixed him with a fish-eye and Moe seized his chance before she lost patience in the nano-second window of opportunity.
“Two pints of Porkers bitter please.”
“Porkers it is.” Brunhilde (Moe had already given her the name in his mind) fetched down two pint glasses from a shelf and flexed a mighty arm at the Porkers pump, pulling the decorative white handle back so far and with such force that Moe’s eyes watered involuntarily.
“That’ll be five pounds exactly.” She slopped the foaming pints on a bar already swimming with overspills, fish-eyes searching out the next eager customer.
Holding their glasses high above their heads to avoid the chance of losing any in the heaving bustle, Moe and Downes reached the comparative safety of a corner. Downes sniffed his beer appreciatively. “Cheers,” he said, the word immediately lost as he buried his nose in the froth at the business end of the glass.
“Here’s to us – and someone who would have enjoyed being here with us,” Moe lifted his own glass in return and raised his gaze. “Amen” Downes murmured reverently, the word almost inaudible in the noise of a crowd that jostled them from every direction. The beer tasted good. Moe cocked an eye up to a wall clock. “Time to collect our winnings and get our cash down on you know who.”
Downes had already drained his pint. “Just when I was getting the taste.”
“There’ll be time enough for a celebratory drink afterwards.”
“Or a consolation drink,” the older man cautioned.
…………………………
They both agreed that On The Ball was a handsome creature. That he had endured the unkindest cut of all to succeed over fences didn’t seem to affect his keen eye and tiptoe step, but it occurred to Moe that reincarnation had suddenly become less appealing.
The gelding strutted his stuff, a large coal black animal with a blaze of white down his noble face.
“Well, at least we won’t have any trouble picking him out.” Downes said loudly, just as their choice passed by. On The Ball pricked his ears and turned to give Downes a look that said just you watch me!
The parade ring was now as full as a banker’s portfolio. The race was a handicap with seventeen runners, offering a quarter of the odds return for a place up to and including the fourth horse home. The buzz was everywhere as Moe and Downes made their way back to the betting enclosure. They had collected their previous winnings when Downes grabbed Moe’s arm tightly, so tight that Moe ouched in protest. “Look there!”
Caesar Legge wasn’t too hard to spot even in that crowd. His bulk was partially obscured by a cloud of cigar smoke but as it cleared his scowling countenance filtered through. He was talking to a couple of bookies beside their stand in the middle distance, jabbing a forceful finger in their faces as they visibly flinched. To Moe, this was the same charmless Legge who had made such a song and dance over paying out a measly couple of hundred quid. Moe felt himself being tugged to one side. “Don’t let him see us,” Downes urged in his ear, “let’s see what he’s up to.”
From the safety of numbers, they kept Legge under observation as the big man harangued the hapless bookies. They responded with helpless shrugs of their shoulders. Legge broke off occasionally, as if coming up for air, gesticulating at their board. They, in turn, appeared to be offering excuses, trying to mollify him. At last, he showed signs of calming down; the arm waving and finger-pointing ceased. To the surprise of the two men watching, Legge remained there as the bookies hurriedly altered board odds before taking more bets, scrutinising every banknote before dropping it into a large capacity satchel.
“Pals, would you say?” Downes enquired sardonically of Moe.
“More dangerous than that, I’d say. Business, more like. And none of ’em happy about it at this moment.”
“In that case, we must have our bet with those same sporting gentlemen!” The emphasis on sporting was underlined in Downes rasp of contempt. “Care to join me, Arthur?” The tone was measured, deadly.
“Sure.” Moe made to accompany Downes towards the trio but the older man shook his head. “Allow me this pleasure, for us – an
d for your old dad.”
“OK”. Moe handed over his stake and watched Downes weave his way over to the bookies, approaching on Legge’s blind side. His wad of notes was greedily accepted before Legge saw him, erupting from his place beside the boards, his little piggy mouth working overtime in the direction of the departing Downes before turning its wrath on the bemused boardmen.
Downes reached Moe with a grin as wide as a motorway.
“Got ’em! A hundred on the nose at nine to one. Now all we have to do is win.”
“A small consideration, naturally.” Moe returned wryly, looking past Downes at a furious Legge scanning the sea of faces. “But I think we should stay within range of our friends just in case they are tempted to do a runner with the loot.”
Downes wagged the bookies’ card. But Moe was still wary. “If Legge is mixed up with them, I don’t hold out a candle to a hail Mary for their inclination to pay up.” He handed Downes his pen.
“OK. I wouldn’t want to lose the chance of taking their dough,” Downes agreed, just as the loudspeakers crackled urgently into life. “And they’re off!”
The Moortown Handicap would be talked about for a long time afterwards. Wherever any two punters, owners or trainers got together, the talk would get around to the race sooner or later. “Do you remember that time at Newlands Priory…?” The race was memorable for the speed and faultless jumping of the main contestants – and for the speed and lively leaping of bookmakers racing homewards. Track records and bank balances were comprehensively broken that afternoon at Newlands Priory.
A photograph had been called for by the course judge to determine the outcome in a tight finish. On The Ball had stormed home to score – Moe was sure – by the shortest distance … a short head or nose. But no one would be paid until the official result was announced. In the meantime, there were all the signs of a likely getaway by Legge and his cronies. Moe called quickly to Downes.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 11
